Another Christmas
by Teobi
Summary: Multi-chapter Christmas story with Mrs. Howell playing a central role as she gets into the spirit of the season. All castaways featured, some MAG and Pinger shipping. Happy Holidays!
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, everyone! **

**About this latest offering.**

**It started out as a 'one shot', but is now destined to become a series of Christmas related drabbles/short chapters. You know how it is when you just get to writing something.**

**I would like to say Merry Christmas to all of my friends on here. All the MAG/Pinger/Howell shippers and the non-shippers and guest reviewers and everyone who loves Gilligan and Gilligan's Island. Happy Christmas, everybody, from me and my dog who sits here patiently while I type!**

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><p>It was a week until Christmas, and the first snowflakes were beginning to drift gently through the air.<p>

Except they weren't snowflakes, they were dust motes escaping from the roof of the hut, whirling and twirling and winking in the rays of bright tropical sunshine.

"Oh, poo," declared Mrs Howell, fanning herself while gazing forlornly out of the window. "Another Christmas on this dratted island."

Laid out on a nearby bamboo lounger, Mr. Howell looked up from the same copy of the Financial Times that he'd been reading and re-reading for the last three years and peered at his beloved wife over the top of his spectacle frames. "Lovey, darling, what on earth made you think of Christmas?" he asked, curiously.

"The date, Thurston, the date! It's December 18th!" Mrs. Howell pursed her lips. "_Really_, Thurston. It's not like you to be so remiss about the time of year!"

Mr. Howell blinked as if forming an inward thought. "Good heavens," he declared. "December 18th, you say. Where does the time go?"

Mrs. Howell flapped her fan in her husband's direction. "You must be softening in your old age, darling," she teased. "Don't you remember how much you used to look forward to Christmas? The time of year where you fire people and make the rest work overtime?"

Mr. Howell's expression grew dreamy. "Ah, yes," he sighed. "'The most wonderful time of the year'. For me, that is!"

"Besides, Gilligan's been prattling on about Christmas non-stop since September. I can't believe you really didn't know."

Mr. Howell smiled. "Yes, well. I tend to switch off after a while. I see his mouth moving, but in my mind I'm hearing Haydn's Trumpet Concerto in E Flat."

"How very clever of you!" tittered Mrs. Howell.

Mr. Howell turned another sun-faded page of the FT. "Thank you, darling. Mind you it isn't hard. There's not much difference between Gilligan and a wind instrument."

Mrs. Howell smiled and turned back to gaze out across the clearing. "Speaking of Gilligan, there he is now." Lovey waved her whole arm out of the window. "Yoo hoo, Gilligan!"

Mr. Howell rolled his eyes. "For goodness sakes', Lovey, don't poke the hornet's nest. I'm just not ready for Haydn this early!"

"Oh, Thurston, do behave! You're becoming quite the old grump, just like your father." Mrs. Howell tapped the top of her husband's head with her fan as she went over to the door to welcome Gilligan. "Come in, dear boy! Tell us what you've been up to!"

Mr. Howell muttered loudly as Gilligan entered the hut, bringing a chaotic waft of air with him that made the pages of the FT flop over.

"What was that, darling?" asked Mrs. Howell, hot on Gilligan's heels.

"I said... 'up to his neck in trouble'," Mr. Howell replied, curtly. He snapped the FT back into position, then sighed as it promptly flopped over again.

"Hey, Mr. Howell!" said Gilligan, breezily. "Still reading about the time Dowell Industries lost four million dollars?"

Mr. Howell brightened immediately. He sat up ramrod straight and inclined his head to watch the First Mate as he approached. "A pleasure to see you, dear boy!" he cried, swatting Gilligan affectionately on the arm. "However did you guess?"

Gilligan grinned widely. "I know it's your favorite story," he said, pointing at the limp newspaper. "You never get tired of reading about how Mr. Dowell's secretary got tired of being chased around the office so she and her fiance pretended to be Mr. Dowell's niece and nephew and blew his fortune in Las Vegas."

Mr. Howell hooted with laughter while Gilligan stood at his side, grinning like a loyal sidekick. "Indeed I don't!" he boomed. "The only thing I find depressing about that story is that it was_ only_ four million dollars!"

"Oh, well. At least _Powell_ Industries went under, huh, Mr. Howell?" Gilligan was still grinning as he clapped Mr. Howell heartily on the shoulder.

"Indeed, my boy! Indeed!" Mr. Howell let out a series of happy chortles like a hyena spying an ailing buffalo calf. "'Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la, la la la la!" The millionaire jumped up from the lounger, did a little soft-shoe shuffle in the sand and then grasped Gilligan by the shoulders. "You certainly know how to bring a smile to an old man's face," he beamed.

"It's Christmas, Mr. Howell," said Gilligan. "The time to put all your troubles aside and be happy."

"And so it is," laughed Mr. Howell. "So it is. Tell me, Gilligan, what other tidings of comfort and joy have you brought for us today?"

"Well," said Gilligan, "me and Skipper are going out to find a tree. Do you and Mrs. Howell wanna help?"

Mr. Howell abruptly let go of Gilligan's shoulders and fussed with the hem of his knitted cardigan, harrumphing and a-hawing.

"Why, we'd love to, Gilligan!" said Mrs. Howell, her face lighting up like the national grid.

"Great!" cried Gilligan, leaping into action. "I'll see if Skipper has a spare ax!"

"Now just wait a minute," said Mr. Howell. "What Lovey means, my dear boy, is that _you_ find the tree, and _we_ will help decorate it!"

"Oh," said Gilligan, deflating. "Okay."

"Oh poo, Thurston," said Lovey, snapping her fan irritably.

"Lovey," said Mr. Howell, "let the elves do the work!"

Gilligan noticed Mrs. Howell's glum look. "Don't worry, Mrs. Howell. We'll find the biggest and the best tree, just for you."

"Thank you, Gilligan," Mrs. Howell replied, graciously.

After Gilligan had left the hut, Mrs. Howell fixed her husband with the kind of look he knew all too well from over twenty years of marriage.

"What?" asked the millionaire, squirming uncomfortably.

But Mrs. Howell said nothing. She stared at her husband for a few moments, then her gaze drifted back toward the window and the familiar figure of Gilligan disappearing into the trees.


	2. Chapter 2

**So I may be overstretching myself by writing this close to Christmas. However I'm not going anywhere this year and so writing is a great way of keeping in the spirit of the season. My dog thinks otherwise; she thinks my time could be better spent fussing over her. Well, guess what- I can do both. Haha, I'm a multi-tasking wizard. **

**Thank you so much for the reviews and support. My internet connection has been a bit weird this week so I am going to upload this chapter as quickly as possible so I can get onto the next. I would love it if anyone has any hints and tips on writing Mrs. Howell. I love her, and I think Natalie Schafer played her with such aplomb. But I need help with things like American high society at the time that Mrs. Howell would have been alive. Please tell me if my portrayal of her is wrong or stilted or rings false in any way. **

**Thanks guys, love you all. Without further ado here is chapter two. And yes I know most people will have had their trees up and decorated by now. What can I say, I was always a late starter.**

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><p>"Well! This looks a likely tree!" The Skipper surveyed the plump shrub in front of him. "Hand me the ax, Gilligan!" He stood with his hand out to the side for several moments until he realized that he was bereft of the ax. Turning to Gilligan, he said with a scowl, "I thought I told you to hand me the ax!"<p>

Gilligan cocked his head this way and that with the coveted ax clutched in both hands, surveying the shrub that the Skipper had chosen.

"I dunno, Skipper," he mused. "I think it's too small."

The Skipper's scowl softened into a look of humorous tolerance. "Did I ask you to think?" he smiled. "I asked you to hand me the ax!"

"Don't I get a say?" asked Gilligan, sulkily.

The Skipper folded his arms as though humoring a small child. "All right, Gilligan. Since it's the season of goodwill, have your say."

Gilligan regarded the shrub. He cast a critical gaze over its short, thick branches and studied the width of its trunk like a seasoned tradesman. "It's too small," he said, finally.

"Well, thanks for your professional opinion," the Skipper retorted. "Now hand me the ax."

Gilligan handed over the ax, but not without reluctance. He watched as the Skipper spat on both palms, rubbed them together, and gripped the ax handle tightly. He watched the Skipper swing the ax back, high above his right shoulder, as though he were about to fell a giant redwood. Braced for the Skipper's mighty swing and the chopping down of the small shrub, both men were startled when an unexpected voice cut through the air, sharper than any ax.

"Captain, wait!" cried Mrs. Howell. "Gilligan's right. It's a darling shrub, but it's_ much_ too small!"

Immediately the Skipper lowered the ax out of harm's way. "Mrs. Howell!" he said as the elegant millionairess emerged from the foliage at the edge of the clearing. "What are you doing all the way out here?"

Mrs. Howell, her parasol resting daintily on her shoulder, approached the wide-eyed and grinning Gilligan and stood at the First Mate's side. "I escaped," she said, naughtily. "Gilligan asked if I wanted to help you select a tree, so here I am!"

"Good for you, Mrs. Howell," said Gilligan, beaming at her as though he'd just been given an early Christmas gift.

"I mutinied, Gilligan," said Mrs. Howell, bumping her shoulder against his upper arm.

"Mrs. Howell," said the Skipper, with an exasperated expression on his face. "With all due respect..."

"Yes?" said Mrs. Howell, expectantly.

The Skipper, his mouth still open, regarded in resigned silence the two people standing in front of him. The skinny First Mate, his little buddy Gilligan, and the poised and elegant better half of Thurston Howell III, Eunice Wentworth 'Lovey' Howell. He knew that there was no point in protesting. For whatever he said from this moment forward, Gilligan and Mrs. Howell would back each other up until the sun went down.

"Fine," he said, sighing with early exhaustion. "If the two of you can pick a better tree, then be my guests."

Mrs. Howell threaded her arm through Gilligan's and gave a happy smile that made her nose crinkle girlishly. _Like Ginger's_, thought the Skipper, his heart softening.

"Trust me, Captain," she said, coquettishly. "I shall find you the most perfect tree you ever laid eyes on. Certainly it won't be a traditional fir or a spruce, but it will be a lot better than that silly little thing!"

The Skipper stared glumly at the shrub he had chosen. This would have been a quick and easy job and they would have been home in time for a snooze before lunch. But there was no chance of getting off lightly now that Mrs. Howell had turned up in full flow.

He watched forlornly as Gilligan and Mrs. Howell set off along the path, both of them talking a mile a minute. And suddenly, unexpectedly, he felt a swell of love in his heart for both of them. They were both so seemingly innocent at first glance, but they both knew how to stand their ground. And even though such direct honesty could be overwhelming at times, in _any_ situation, the Skipper knew that he would be in for a highly entertaining afternoon, and that they would, without a doubt, return to camp with the best Christmas tree.

Captain Jonas Grumby resigned himself to his fate and followed up the path behind Gilligan and Mrs. Howell. He kept himself sane by thinking of how happy the other castaways would be when Mrs. Howell's tree was in place, and the decorating could begin in earnest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Okay, here comes a crazy long chapter! A few IMPORTANT notes to begin with.**

**The cross eyed angel, winking Gilligan and mistletoe decorations mentioned in this story made their first appearance in my Christmas fic from 2011, 'Ho Ho Mistletoe'. Mr. Mackie appears in 'What Happens To The Lonely At Christmas?' from 2012.**

**The decorated test tubes and origami animals made from twenty dollar bills are from JWood201's Christmas fic from 2011, 'The Night Before Christmas'. (Recommended reading. It is absolutely magical.) Thanks to JWood201 for the permission to include them here.**

**Thanks again for all your wonderful reviews, and I hope you are all set for Christmas!**

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><p>The box of Christmas decorations that had grown bigger with every passing year now took two people to carry it over to the table from its year-round hiding place in back of the closet. Ginger and Mary Ann hoisted it up with a "one, two", and plopped it onto the table, smiling as the many ornaments rattled and tinkled, one of the most identifiable and evocative sounds of Christmas.<p>

Mary Ann reached in and pulled out a string of brightly painted sea and oyster shells that had somehow become more twisted and tangled than one of Gilligan's fishing lines.

"Ugh! How does this even happen?" she said with exasperation.

"Beats me," said Ginger, lifting out a large starfish covered in silver glitter. "This is pretty. I don't remember making this."

"I do," said Mary Ann. "I was still picking glitter out of my hair in February."

Ginger laughed. She set the starfish carefully aside and continued rummaging through the box. "Oh look," she smiled. "Here's the origami swan made out of twenty dollar bills. It's a bit crumpled, but we'll soon have that fixed."

"Mr. Howell was very generous to let us have access to his petty cash," said Mary Ann, as Ginger fished more origami animals from the depths of the giant box. Swans and cranes mostly, but here was a dolphin and there was a butterfly, all carefully folded and pinned in place with ribbons that had faded in the bright tropical sunshine that now marked all of their Christmases.

"Oh look, here are the Professor's decorated test tubes! Or what's left of them," Ginger smiled, setting aside half a dozen of the delicate science instruments. "I seem to remember we had quite few more than this."

"Well, the Professor took some of them back, and the rest somehow got broken, I guess," Mary Ann laughed.

"'_Somehow_' got broken? Or got broken by Gilligan?" Ginger picked up one of the test tubes and admired the myriad layers of colored sand sealed within.

"Come now, Ginger," Mary Ann teased. "Got broken the way all Christmas decorations get broken. By fairies in the night."

Ginger rolled her eyes in an overly dramatic fashion, and then both girls dissolved into giggles.

"Fairies in white sailor hats," said Ginger.

"More like blue polo shirts," said Mary Ann. "You didn't see the way Skipper threw this box into the closet last year. '_So long and good riddance for another twelve months_!'" she finished, in as gruff a voice as she could manage.

"Oh, look, Mary Ann," said Ginger, suddenly distracted by something else in the box. "Guess what I found!"

Mary Ann watched excitedly as Ginger removed some dried foliage and other scraps of vegetation tied together in bunches with more lengths of faded ribbon.

"The 'mistletoe'!" she cried, delightedly.

"Yes. They're a bit bit faded and worn, though. We should have made more for this year."

Mary Ann shook her head. "All the magic is in those bunches," she smiled. "Those are the original and best."

Ginger looked at her friend. "Your eyes are all glazed," she teased. "Are you thinking of a certain someone?"

Mary Ann blushed furiously. "Maybe. But I bet you are, too."

"Touche," Ginger smiled, enigmatically. "I hope the boys are ready for us this year."

The bunches of 'mistletoe' were set aside as the girls delved once more into the box. They oohed and aahed over decorated starfish, ribbons and bows, and delicate mobiles made from oyster shells and oyster pearls interspersed with pieces of colored glass that Gilligan had found in the ocean. Even though they didn't possess proper tree lights, both girls agreed that nature had provided them with plenty of her own natural lights and colors in the way that the sun bounced and reflected off of her own creations.

"Oh, Ginger, look," said Mary Ann, cupping her hands around something in the box and lifting it gently into the air. "It's the winking Gilligan angel."

Both girls regarded the little wooden angel with love and affection swelling in their hearts. Its arms still stuck up and out like a little traffic cop. It still had a lopsided golf ball sized head that looked about to fall off. The expression on its tiny face still made them want to laugh and cry at the same time. It still made them want to pick up the real Gilligan and squeeze him until there was no breath left in his lungs.

"He made such an effort to get it right," Mary Ann said, tenderly.

"Be careful," said Ginger, her voice cracking. "You're about to make me cry."

Mary Ann put the Gilligan angel down and peered over the rim of the box. "If the Gilligan angel is there, then the other one can't be far behind," she mused, casting her eyes around the remaining contents. "Ah! Here she is!"

Mary Ann lifted up a small treetop angel made from scraps of wire and different kinds of fabric. Its pale blue chiffon wings were slightly bent, its cottony hair even more untidy with each passing year. Its little eyes made from shiny, jet-black beads were still slightly wonky, still giving it the appearance of being cross eyed. Mary Ann gazed down upon its delicate little face, meeting its steady gaze, certain that she could sense a real soul dwelling inside.

"I promised Gilligan his sister could have you," she said softly. "So we must make sure we keep you safe!"

Ginger watched as Mary Ann smoothed out the angel's wings, fluffed up its little cloud of 'hair', and put it down on the table next to the Gilligan angel. Then she looked carefully at the expression on her friend's face, scrutinizing every nuance with her actress's natural instincts. The Kansan farm girl's eyes were bright but far away, lost in some unknown future where eternal happiness reigned. Where perhaps a dark haired boy in a red shirt and blue jeans waited for her in the doorway of a cozy little cottage half way between sun kissed fields of wheat and diamond-dappled sea.

Lost in her own thoughts about a certain man of science, Ginger returned her attentions to the box and continued sorting through the decorations in companionable silence.

oOoOo

Mrs. Howell strolled arm in arm with Gilligan while the Skipper kept his gimlet eye peeled for a larger and more suitable tree. They talked amiably about Christmas- Christmases past and Christmas memories, and even Christmases that had gone wrong. Gilligan told of how his brother had dropped the turkey one year.

"It may surprise you, but I'm not the clumsiest one in our family," he declared, proudly.

Mrs. Howell listened to a story of how Gilligan, aged ten, had befriended a neighbor called Mr. Mackie, who had previously frightened all the children simply by being an old man who lived alone in a slightly creaky house. The Gilligans had baked him some cookies and even invited him for Christmas dinner. The old man's pride had prevented him from accepting the invitation, although he was "mighty grateful" for the cookies. But little Gilligan wouldn't leave it at that. He asked his mom to put some dinner on a plate; and, walking carefully down the street with the bagged helping of turkey, mashed potato with gravy and aromatic vegetables, Gilligan made his way to Mr. Mackie's house.

He left the bag on the porch outside Mr. Mackie's front door, rang the bell, and then scooted hurriedly down the path and out of the gate to hide behind a nearby tree and watch. After a few moments, the door opened, and Mr. Mackie stood there, perplexed.

"Look down!" Gilligan had shouted from his not so secret hiding place.

Mr. Mackie made a big show of cupping his ear with his hand as a smile began to spread across his wizened features. "What's that?" he called. "Did I hear a voice on the wind? One of Santa's little helpers?"

"Look down!" shouted Gilligan, trying to muffle his giggles.

Mr. Mackie dropped his gaze and saw the bag sitting on the doorstep. He bent down and took a huge sniff of the heavenly aroma that emanated from it. "Oh, my!" He declared. "Oh me, oh my!" And as he lifted the plate and carefully removed the bag, Gilligan told Mrs. Howell that the old man's voice had cracked and his ten year old self suddenly felt weird and strange, like something was happening that he wasn't yet old enough to recognize.

"Merry Christmas, ho ho ho!" shouted little Gilligan in a deep voice.

"Thank you, Santa! Thank you!" called back Mr. Mackie. "I'll never forget this Christmas as long as I live!"

As luck would have it, Mr. Mackie had died the very next year, before another Christmas came around.

"But every Christmas, I think of him when I eat my dinner," said Gilligan. "That look on his face, I'll never forget it."

Mrs. Howell squeezed Gilligan's arm. "You're a good man, Gilligan," she said. "And I am sure that Mr. Mackie appreciated everything that you did for him." She sighed, thinking back over her own past. "We don't always appreciate what we have until we no longer have it. I remember being given all kinds of expensive gifts as a child; dolls and dresses and antique rocking horses. But often I had no one to share them with. Oh, I had friends, of course, but play time was arranged to suit our parents, and I had to wait until they were allowed to visit me. And I can tell you without a doubt, that I absolutely would _not_ have been allowed to carry a plate of food through the streets, even for a lonely neighbor."

"That's sad," said Gilligan, looking off into the trees.

"Yes," agreed Mrs. Howell. "It is. It's_ very_ sad."

After a time, they came upon a tall tropical evergreen that resembled a traditional Christmas tree enough for Mrs. Howell to unhook her arm from Gilligan's and clap her gloved hands together excitedly.

"Captain, oh, Captain! I think this is the one!"

The Skipper, who had been listening to the conversation going on behind him for the last twenty minutes, and who found himself thinking about Mr. Mackie even though they had never met, stopped in his tracks and looked up at the tree that Mrs. Howell had decreed would be theirs.

"You sure, Mrs. H?" he smiled, noting the way her excitement made her look like the little girl she had just been describing.

"Of course I'm sure!" Mrs. Howell asserted. "I don't think I've ever seen a more lovely specimen!"

"All right, then. Let's get to work!" The Skipper again spat on his palms, rubbed them together, and took hold of the ax handle.

"Wait!" cried Mrs. Howell, just as the ax began to describe its arc through the air.

The Skipper halted and exchanged a quick side glance with Gilligan before both men once again stared at the elegant socialite.

"It's far too nice to simply chop it down," said Mrs. Howell. "Why kill a tree just for Christmas?"

The Skipper, his ax still hovering in midair, felt his heart sink. "Because it's Christmas?" he ventured, hesitantly.

"We shall dig it up and replant it," Mrs. Howell decided. "Gilligan, run back to camp and bring a shovel, will you?"

Gilligan looked from Mrs. Howell to the Skipper, unsure of whose orders to follow.

"Oh, and bring the Professor with you. Many hands make light work, as they say!"

The Skipper lowered the ax and sighed heavily. "Go on, Gilligan. Go get a shovel..._ and_ the Professor. And make sure you don't forget either!"

Gilligan acted out writing a list on the palm of his hand. "A shovel. The Professor. Got it!"

Gilligan wheeled about and hurtled away through the trees. The Skipper leaned on the ax handle and fixed Mrs. Howell with a Captain's look of beady eyed scrutiny.

"Christmas is only a few days away, you know," he said, tipping his hat to the back of his head. "It's not the best time to go all environmentalist on us."

Mrs. Howell twirled her parasol and smiled enigmatically. "I don't know, Captain," she said, sweetly. "There's just something that tells me I'm doing the right thing."

"One of Santa's little helpers?"

Mrs. Howell crinkled her nose again, making the Skipper feel like a little boy. "Yes," she agreed. "I think it must be."


	4. Chapter 4

**Everyone, thanks so much for all your lovely reviews, I am truly happy beyond words that you're enjoying this story. I'm not used to writing Mrs. Howell. But what I try to do is picture it happening onscreen, as if I were watching it on TV, and if it seems that something she (or any of the characters) would do or say, then that is how I write it. Sometimes my 'Britishness' gets in the way, but I always trust that someone will point out to me where I'm going wrong, as well as what I'm doing right. **

**My dog broke out in hives on Christmas Eve (great timing, as usual... honestly, dogs and kids, who'd have them.) So I have not been online much as we have both been sleep deprived and stressed. But she seems to be getting better now. The number 1 suspect is the conifer in the garden, you can smell the sap before you even get to the tree, and she is always rummaging under it. **

**These are the times when you wish you had Gilligan to tell you what was wrong with the animal. (Any excuse to have Gilligan).**

**For those wondering where Proffy was in this story... here he is!**

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><p>The Professor had turned up while the girls were sorting and admiring the tree decorations. He examined a couple of his decorated test tubes and dryly remarked on how they had managed to survive another year under the weight of Mr. Howell's money. Ginger began teasing him about test tubes, making innocent yet ever-so-slightly suggestive comments that brought a flush to his neck and a wide eyed, giggling gasp from Mary Ann. The Kansan farm girl knew what it was like to live around farmers and she had heard plenty of salty language in her lifetime. But to hear these naughty-but-nice things coming out of Ginger's rosy painted lips was very different, and rather tantalizing.<p>

In the midst of this playful banter, Gilligan arrived. The frenetic whirlwind of red, white and blue that they had all come to love came barreling into the hut without a word of warning. He raced over to the corner, picked up a shovel, then sped over to the table and grabbed the Professor's hand. But the startled Professor stood firm, and instead of racing out through the door with the Professor in tow as he had intended, Gilligan sprang back like a recoiling rubber band, bumped into the Professor, and sent him straight into Ginger's arms.

"I- I'm sorry, Ginger," Roy murmured, blushing with embarrassment.

"I'm not," teased Ginger, tracing a fingertip delicately along his eyebrow.

Politely ignoring the display of affection happening before her eyes, Mary Ann turned her attentions to the flustered First Mate. "What's going on, Gilligan?" she asked, curiously.

"Mrs. Howell found a tree she liked and Skipper was about to chop it down but then she said she doesn't want to kill it so she asked me to shovel the Professor," Gilligan babbled in a long stream of words all joined together.

Mary Ann's huge eyes widened still further. "She asked you to shovel the Professor?"

Gilligan pulled a face. "No. She asked me to get a shovel and dig the Professor."

Ginger smiled seductively at the man of science held warmly in her arms. "You're not the only one who digs the Professor," she purred.

Mary Ann pulled Gilligan gently to one side, smiling up into the First Mate's eyes. "Take a deep breath, Gilligan," she laughed. "And tell us what's really going on."

Gilligan did as he was told, calmed himself down, and was eventually able to convince the Professor and the girls that he was on a legitimate Christmas mission and wasn't just being a Gilligan.

"You're telling us that Mrs. Howell wants us to dig up the tree?" asked the Professor, a weary look already beginning to emerge on his handsome face.

"Oh! How manly," said Ginger, her lips just a breath away from his ear.

"Yeah. And it's a really big one," nodded Gilligan.

"I'll bet it is," cooed Ginger.

The Professor fell into a fit of coughing. Gilligan slapped him between the shoulder blades as he carried on talking.

"That's why I have to steal the Professor. Because if Skipper has to wait any longer out there in the jungle, there's no telling what might happen. We might end up decorating Mrs. Howell and using _her_ for a Christmas tree!"

Mary Ann suddenly thought of something. "That reminds me," she declared. "The time! We really must get started on lunch!"

"Yeah," said Gilligan. "Skipper's gonna be starving by the time me and the Professor have finished digging up the tree."

The Professor disengaged himself from Ginger's arms as the penny dropped. "Wait a minute!" he blustered. "By the time _who and who_ have finished digging up the tree?"

"You and me," Gilligan replied. "We're the subordinates, Professor. Chain of command, remember? First Mrs. Howell, then Skipper, then me, then..."

"Then_ you_?" said Ginger, in disbelief.

"Yeah," said Gilligan, pulling his shoulders back. "After the Skipper comes me. I'm the First Mate."

"No wonder we're in this mess," Ginger retorted.

The Professor sighed. One of those overly dramatic 'from-the-diaphragm' sighs that suggested he would rather be stranded on the outer edges of a black hole than on this uncharted desert isle. A sigh that suggested he may have been taking acting lessons from Ginger on the sly.

"All right, Gilligan. Since there's no way of arguing with Mrs. Howell once she's made up her mind, we'd better get this over with as quickly and as painlessly as possible."

The Professor made a gentlemanly gesture of farewell to Ginger and Mary Ann. Gilligan did the same, flashing a dimpled grin while bending over in a stilted and rather clumsy bow. Then the two men left the hut, and the two girls looked at each other and burst into another fit of giggles.

"There they go, our brave and handsome men, off to save the world," giggled Ginger.

"A world run by Mrs. Howell," laughed Mary Ann.

Ginger smiled at her friend, then looked thoughtfully at all the Christmas decorations that lay spread all over the table. "We've become quite a family, haven't we, Mary Ann?" she said, rather unexpectedly. "A box of decorations that gets bigger every year, two men who are like everything to us- brothers, friends... " her voice trailed off, ending in an almost choked whisper.

"We have," agreed Mary Ann, softly. "In spite of all of our differences, we have truly become a family."

Ginger dabbed the corner of her eye with the knuckle of her forefinger. "I never in my wildest dreams imagined being shipwrecked with the man of my wildest dreams," she garbled.

"That's as straightforward as something Gilligan might say," said Mary Ann, trying to boost her friend's sudden introspective mood.

"But he's so wonderful," Ginger sniffed, smiling through her happy tears. "He's smart and intelligent, and he's never judged me for any of the decisions I've made. I can _talk_ to him, Mary Ann. I can talk to him as though I've known him all my life."

Mary Ann gazed at the little Gilligan angel and the fluffy haired, cross-eyed angel standing next to him. "I feel the same way about Gilligan," she confessed. "I can talk to him about anything. Even if he doesn't always listen!"

Ginger laughed her beautiful, musical laugh, a laugh that always made Mary Ann feel better. "Come on, Mary Ann. Let's go and prepare a lunch fit for a King. Our three heroes are going to need it!"

Mary Ann tore her eyes away from the little angels and threaded her arm through Ginger's. With the two little angels silently watching, the girls left the hut, joking about the situations that their menfolk got themselves into.

oOoOo

The Professor dragged his forearm across his glistening brow. "I will never get used to perspiring in winter," he said, mournfully.

"Oh, come now, Professor! A big, strong man like you!" Mrs. Howell spun her parasol in the shade of a giant mahogany as she watched the men work feverishly at the tree. "You're almost there, you simply cannot give up now!"

"Gee, I wonder who picked the tree with the deepest roots in the whole history of this island," muttered the Skipper, taking the shovel from the Professor's shaking hands and plunging it once more into the earth.

"Mrs. Howell did," said Gilligan, helpfully. The First Mate was down to his undershirt, having wrapped his rugby shirt bandanna style around his head.

The Skipper smiled sweetly at Gilligan. "Thank you, Gilligan. I was afraid I was going crazy."

The three men continued hacking at the roots of the tree, taking it in turns to break their backs and poke fun at each other. All the while, Mrs. Howell observed with growing delight the efforts of her hardworking teamsters.

"All the girls love a man who works hard," she said by way of encouragement, twirling her parasol.

"Do they love a man who dies of exhaustion while doing so?" the Skipper teased back, throwing the socialite a big beaming, ruddy grin.

"Yes, they do," trilled Mrs. Howell. "They love a man who dies of exhaustion more than anything!"

"Well, in that case they're gonna love the heck outta me!" the Skipper declared, playing to his delighted female audience of one.

Meanwhile, Gilligan and the Professor passed the shovel to and fro, their faces pale with exertion.

"I wasn't made for this kind of manual labor," the Professor gasped.

"How about me? I weight 130 pounds wringing wet," said Gilligan.

"But you're a sailor," the Professor countered. "You're used to heaving-to and hoisting the yardarm."

"I sailed in the US Navy, not on the _Hesperus_," Gilligan grinned. "All our ships had engines."

The Professor stood on the shovel and gave it an extra hard thrust into the hardened earth. "As a biologist, I never thought I'd say this, but Skipper should have chopped this thing down while he had the chance."

"He didn't get the chance," said Gilligan, bending down to whisper sympathetically. "Mrs. Howell's been calling the shots all morning."

Both the Professor and Gilligan turned to watch the flirtatious teasing going on between the red faced Skipper, standing proud in the sunshine, and Mrs. Howell, perched ladylike on a boulder underneath the spreading mahogany.

"'_All I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by_', "the Professor quoted, quietly. "Isn't it funny, Gilligan? how the chain of command alters day by day."

"I guess so," Gilligan mused. "Except I don't get my turn too often. And when I do, no one takes me seriously."

The Professor turned and fixed Gilligan with a wry smile. "Don't talk to me about being taken seriously," he chuckled. "I worked and studied hard all of my life, only for a man with more money than sense to call me an 'Egghead' every time I come up with a new idea. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother!"

Gilligan grinned at the Professor from under the folds of his rugby shirt. He looked so funny with the sleeves of the shirt dangling around his ears, like a poor man's Lawrence of Arabia, that the Professor couldn't help but grin back just as widely.

"You're the smartest man on the island, Professor," said the sunny faced boy. "You keep the whole group of us together."

The Professor shook his head, modestly. "You're the one who keeps us all together, Gilligan. You're the one who's shown us love, understanding, and tolerance. Especially tolerance," he added with a deep chuckle.

"You're like the big brother I never had," said Gilligan. "Or should I say the bigger brother, since I already have a big brother."

"Gilligan, I'd be honored to be your bigger brother," the Professor laughed.

The companionable moment between the two men was suddenly broken by the foghorn yell of the Skipper.

"Who told you to stop digging?" he boomed, his fists on his hips and his massive chest thrust out.

"Sorry, sir," said Gilligan, squinting into the sunlight as he snapped to attention.

"Aye, Captain," said the Professor, saluting crisply.

The Skipper turned and winked at Mrs. Howell as the younger men resumed digging, hacking and slicing their way around the lowest roots of the tree.

"Not long now, Mrs. Howell," he said, updating the happy socialite on the men's progress.

"I'm delighted to hear it, Captain," Mrs. Howell trilled, gaily. "And don't pull that face. I know you think this is all very unnecessary, but when the girls see the three of you arriving back at camp with this marvelous and magnificent tree, you will soon realize how worthwhile your endeavors have been."

The Skipper wiped his brow. There was something about what Mrs. Howell had just said, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. And then he began to hear the rhythmic chopping of the shovel, the way it thwacked into the dirt and hefted the soil. A slow and steady, 'thwack... swoosh... thwack... swoosh'. And the lyrics of a famous Christmas carol popped automatically into his head.

_We three kings of Orient are. Bearing gifts we traverse afar. Field and fountain, moor and mountain, following yonder star._

Three men. A gift. And a yonder star. Whether the star be Ginger, a real star up in the sky, or a sign of rescue, a star was a promise always worth following.

The Skipper creased his eyes against the sun and thrust out his huge hand. "Give me the shovel," he instructed, taking the proffered implement from the more-than-grateful Professor. "I'm the Captain, and_ I'll_ do the rest."

* * *

><p><strong>We Three Kings of Orient Are was written in 1857 by Rev. John Henry Hopkins. The minister is reputed to have written the carol We three Kings of Orient Are for the General Theological Seminary in New York City as part of their Christmas pageant.<strong>

**'All I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by' - from 'Sea Fever' by John Masefield** **(1878 – 1967)**


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